Cut, Paste, Kill Chapter 2 of 2
“So, Mike, how’s it going?” my father asked, tears streaming down his face. Granted, he was chopping onions, but still, there’s something unnerving about watching a grown man cry.
And Big Jim Lomax is a man full grown. Six- foot- four, which is easy enough to verify, and three hundred pounds, which isn’t. He’s been claiming that same perfect bowling score weight since the Clinton administration, but I’m betting his scale simply ran out of numbers.
“It’s going pretty good,” I responded. “Terry and I just wrapped up that gangbanger homicide, and we—”
“I don’t mean cop stuff. I’m your father, not Internal Affairs. I meant how’s your life going?”
“Diana and I have been in the new house for six months. We finally got the painting done, and—”
“Mike, I’ve seen the house. I’ve been there fifty times.”
“And two of those times you were actually invited.”
He ignored the dig. “Okay, so you and Diana feel good about the house,” he said. “How do you feel about everything else?”
Considering the fact that I’m a detective, you would think I’d have picked up on the obvious. When Big Jim asks how it’s going, he’s worse than Internal Affairs. “It” means my relationship with Diana.
I sidestepped the question. “The message you left on my answering machine said ‘lunch at one.’ It’s 1:15, and we haven’t been fed yet.”
“Great artistry takes time,” he said, giving the last onion a final chop. He put the knife down, wiped his eyes with a dishtowel, and cleared his nasal passages with a loud wet snort.
“Very appetizing,” I said. “You’re lucky I work for LAPD and not the Board of Health.”
He turned his attention to a bowl that was heaped with raw chopped meat. “So,” he said in that tone of voice that lets you know he’s tired of waiting for an answer, “how’s it going?”
I deflected the question a second time. “And the rest of your message said there would be an announcement of major proportion. The only thing I’ve seen of major proportion is a pile of ground round the size of a bowling ball. Do you really need that much red meat for six people?”
“Hey, these aren’t dinky- ass McDonald’s burgers. These are Big Jim’s Famous Cajun Cows on a Bun. The recipe calls for one pound per person.”
“I hate to put a crimp in your artistry, but Diana and I can’t handle your version of spicy,” I said.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“The last time I ate one of your burgers it burned the hair right off my chest. From the inside. Hold the Cajun on ours.”
“Your loss,” he said digging into the bowl and scooping out a mound of beef. He plopped it into a smaller bowl.
“And hold the cow. We’ll each have a dinky- ass burger.”
“Hold the Cajun, hold the cow, what next, Mike? Hold the bun?”
“The bun is fine,” I said, “but I’d be eternally grateful if you’d hold the transparent questions about my love life.”
“Moi?” The three- hundred- pound cherub grinned. “Transparent? I was trying to be subtle, but that never works with you. So here’s the question in five words. How’s it going with Diana?”
“And here’s the answer in five words: none of your business.”
“That’s four words.”
“Do you really need the fifth word? Here’s a hint. It starts with an F.”
“You guys have a great relationship. I’m just curious if you have any plans to like maybe permanentize it?”
“Yeah. We’re reading Permanentizing for Dummies. I’ll keep you posted.”
He started working the onions into the beef. “Diana isn’t getting any younger, you know,” he said. “Her biological clock is spinning like a windmill in a hurricane. And, for the record, so is mine. Your son needs a grandfather who can teach him to play ball, fl y a plane, and take apart an engine. Or would you rather he just visit me when I’m in the nursing home, crapping in my diapers and drooling in my oatmeal?”
“I don’t have a son,” I said.
“That’s my point, Mike. You should. It’s time.”
“Has it escaped you that Diana and I aren’t even married?”
“Your mother and I weren’t married either, and I got her pregnant.”
“Once again, I fail to live up to your legacy.”
The kitchen door opened, and Angel came in. Jim married her a few years after my mother died. My mom was a movie stuntwoman, tall and athletic, with red hair, fair skin, and classic Irish features. Angel is tiny, and her features are classic South of the Border: black hair, dark eyes, and caramel skin.
She walked up to Jim, her head barely reaching his chest. “Are you going to come outside and grill the hamburgers, or are you going to stay in here and grill your son?”
“You’re way off base,” he said. “We’re just having a pleasant father- son chat.”
She smiled at me. “He was sticking his nose into your personal life again, wasn’t he, Mike?”
“Again? You mean still. And it wasn’t just his nose. He was digging with all fours like a prairie dog with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.”
She wagged a finger at him. “If we had more time I’d give you the lecture on personal boundaries again, but Marilyn and Terry are here and we’re all hungry.”
“Terry’s here?” Jim said. “Good. At least I’ll have someone to talk to who actually likes me.”
The truth is, everyone likes my father. It’s his style that can drive people a little nuts. His goal is to make people happy. The problem is Big Jim Lomax never bothers to ask what would make you happy. He decides for you. If he sees an old lady standing on a corner, he’ll stop traffic and carry her across the street. It doesn’t matter if she’s screaming, “Put me down, you overgrown idiot. I was waiting for a bus.”
He’s all heart and no tact. I love him, but since I’m the one whose life he most enjoys trying to fix, I spend a lot of time trying to keep him at bay.
Jim, Angel, and I carried the food out to the backyard. It was late spring, so the place smelled of bougainvilleas and diesel fuel.
The flowers change with the seasons. The oil smell is year-round.
Jim is a trucker. He started out working for the movie studios as a driver. Early on, he realized that the people who rented out the cars and trucks to the film crews made more money than the people who drove them. Today he owns more than fi fty equipment trucks, star trailers, and limos. At any given time, a lot of them are scattered over his four- acre spread in Riverside.
I put the food on the table, said hello to Terry and Marilyn, then headed over to Diana.
She looked spectacular— blond, tan, and at forty- three, totally hot. When my wife Joanie died I couldn’t imagine ever loving another woman. I was wrong. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Diana Trantanella. I was about to put my arm around her when my cell phone rang.
There are only four people who would call my cell on a Sunday. Three of them were here. That left Brendan Kilcullen, my boss.
I answered. “It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon, Lieutenant. I’d have thought you’d be out on the golf course.”
“I was,” he said. “Until the watch commander called. That’s the thing about homicide, Lomax. It hunts you down, even when you’re about to birdie the seventh hole. A woman was stabbed to death at The Afton Gardens Hotel. I need you and your partner on the case now. Do you know where he is?”
“Yes sir. Detective Biggs is ten feet away, contemplating suicide.”
“I’m not in the mood for comedy,” Kilcullen said. “Tell him to put his gun down, and—”
“It’s not a gun,” I said. “It’s a cholesterol bomb. Should I tell him to cancel his lunch plans?”
“Lunch, dinner, Christmas, Easter. You two don’t eat till you solve it. From what the watch commander tells me, this one is high profile.”
“They’re all high profile, boss. In Hollywood, even the murder victims are celebrities. What’s the dead woman’s claim to fame? Big screen, small screen, or straight- to- DVD?”
“None of the above. She’s more of an O.J. Simpson type.”
“She’s a sports star?”
“No,” Kilcullen said. “She killed someone last year and got away with it.”
From Cut, Paste, Kill by Marshall Karp. Copyright © 2010 by the author and reprinted by permission of Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press, LLC.
